


if there is something

by clarnicamhalai



Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: Catching up with old friends, M/M, Making up for lost time, and they all live happily ever after, lockwood never died
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 06:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11640972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarnicamhalai/pseuds/clarnicamhalai
Summary: It is nine forty-five on a Thursday night in the middle of November and Scripps’ thoughts are inexplicably fixed on one of his old school mates.





	if there is something

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ‘If There is Something’ by Roxy Music. Liberties in the timeline are taken.

_there were two youths of equal age_  
_wit, station, strength, and parentage_  
 _they studied at the self-same schools_  
 _and shaped their thoughts by common rules_  
the two men ; thomas hardy

-:-

It is nine forty-five on a Thursday night in the middle of November and Scripps’ thoughts are inexplicably fixed on one of his old school mates.

Four long years stretch between this dingy, noisy pub and the last time he saw James Lockwood, and it’s a further two on top of that since they shared those final classes at Cutler’s Grammar School in Sheffield, under the instruction of Hector, Irwin and Totty, but tonight, try as he might, he just can’t seem to shift his thoughts from memories of a thin-lipped boy with red trainers and a badge-covered blazer.

Lieutenant James Lockwood now, Scripps reminds himself judiciously. His university fees paid by the army in return for a minimum five years of service – two of which have already passed, Scripps realises after some quick calculations.

 _By all the days that I have lived/Make me a soldier, Lord._ Of course, if Lockwood were here with him no doubt he would have offered something musical, with a bit more confidence: _He’s all of thirty-one, and he’s only seventeen/been a soldier for a thousand years_ , perhaps?

While his thoughts linger on the past, Scripps allows his fingers to curl around his pint, the smell of beer, smoke and students starting to merge into the acrid scent of a night out.

Posner’s left him this last half hour for a John Cusack lookalike, and it doesn’t look like he’ll be coming back anytime soon, so Scripps finishes his drink and leaves, pushing through the throng of people until he reaches the door and the wintry freedom it offers, pulling at his coat to fight off the biting cold. He buries his face in the scarf at his neck and sets off into the night.

-:-

“Have you heard anything about Lockwood lately?”

Posner asks it out of the blue and Scripps suddenly feels exposed, as if Pos has read his mind, because truth be told he’s been wondering the same thing since that night in the bar when Lockwood slipped into his mind and set up camp there, stubborn as always.

“Not lately,” he says instead, and Posner frowns, busying himself by stirring his tea.

“It’s just that I saw Akthar on Tuesday and he mentioned that Timms heard from Dakin that Lockwood’s been deployed to Kosovo, and, well, you and Dakin used to get on fairly well – I just thought you may have heard something.”

Scripps hums in reply; he hasn’t seen Dakin in a long while, aside from chance encounters. He hasn’t time for the company Dakin tends to keep these days.

The waitress arrives at that moment with their chosen sweets and the conversation turns to more general topics, like whether Pos should audition for the role of Juliet in the local theatre company’s all-male production of Shakespeare’s most overdone play and how Scripps is finding his new job at the daily paper.

They don’t talk about Lockwood again.

-:-

His notebooks are full of war poems these days.

Scripps will deny, of course, that the resurgence of his preoccupation with war poetry is in any way connected to his preoccupation with Lockwood.

He’d managed to keep those feelings under wraps all through school; it hadn’t required much, not when there was Posner and Dakin and all the subsequent drama Irwin had added into the mix to draw the lads’ attention away. And God had always been the easy deflection.

Thankfully, Posner quite likes both Hardy and protest singers from the sixties, so he doesn’t even question it when the music of Phil Ochs becomes a soundtrack to their regular catch ups.

Scripps is finishing a journal entry with a line from a Thomas Hardy poem when Pos reads it aloud, over his shoulder.

“ _Hence the faith and fire within us/Men who march away!_ I like that,” Posner says, musingly. “Faith and fire – has a nice ring to it.”

Scripps hums his agreement, pocketing the journal in the inner slot of his coat and shoving his hands in his pockets. It’s warming up slowly, but the mornings still carry a chill in the air. They’re on the way home to Sheffield this particular morning; Pos is giving his new car a workout, a beat up old Volkswagen. His parents are going to hate it (or so Pos had told Scripps when he first bought it), but it’s a necessary investment.

“All set?” Pos asks, snug in the driver’s seat wearing a ratty old woollen jumper, and then they’re on the road.

As they drive past Cutlers’ sprawling grounds some hours later, Scripps can’t quite shake the sensation that coming home feels something like having travelled through time.

-:-

The first week in Sheffield passes like a spoon through molasses. Scripps moseys through the days without thinking of deadlines or essays and happily accompanies his mother on errands when she asks. He’s carefree in a way that makes him feel like a child again, leaving his academic duties behind like it’s the summer holidays proper.

So, it’s entirely by chance that he runs into Lockwood.

He’s looking at the shelves of milk, trying to remember which brand his mother specifically asked him to buy, when he hears his name called. Startled, he looks around.

 _Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear_ , Scripps thinks in surprise.

Standing at the corner of the aisle is James Lockwood.

He looks taller and broader and tireder, but he still looks like Lockwood. He’s even wearing the same blasted red trainers he lived in through that last year at Cutlers’.

“Good to see you, man,” Lockwood says through a wide smile as he closes the distance between them. They shake hands and even before their skin makes contact, Scripps can feel a self-assuredness radiating from Lockwood that wasn’t there before. He’d been cocky and obnoxious and rakish when he was in school, self-assured in a different way to the quiet, staid man standing before Scripps now.

“I thought you were overseas,” Scripps says. He’s trying not to pry, but his curiosity gets the better of him. “Are you back in Sheffield?”

“Only for a few weeks – then it’s back to Kosovo.” Lockwood smiles grimly. “Bit of luck to run into you, though – what are you up to?”

“Now, or generally?”

“Both, either – I’m not fussy,” Lockwood replies with a lopsided shrug. “If you’re not in a hurry, it’d be nice to catch up, to be honest with you. Haven’t seen any of the lads in years. Got time for a pint?”

Scripps’ mother is expecting him home, but she’ll manage for an hour without him – and without the milk. Besides, she can hardly scold him for catching up with an old friend.

“Sure,” Scripps says. “Lead on.”

It doesn’t take long to get settled in the pub; it’s only a few streets down and not too busy.

“So what are you doing with yourself.” Lockwood’s attention is focused intently on Scripps. “Aside from wiping the floor with your classmates, of course, because that I know won’t have changed.”

“Hardly!” Scripps protests. “If anything, that was Dakin, not me!”

Lockwood laughs at his indignance. “True, true. But, honestly, what are you doing these days?”

Scripps takes a long draught. “I’m a copy editor at the local paper. It’s going well. Still see Pos occasionally, but catch ups with the other lads are few and far between at the minute. We’re all getting busier with our own lives these days.”

“And what about romance – still a man of God? More interested in the psalms than putting your palms elsewhere?”

Lockwood makes the most ridiculously suggestive face that Scripps can’t help but laugh.

“Disappointingly,” he tells Lockwood, “despite being less virtuous, I still can’t seem to get a date.”

“What a load of bullocks. Strapping, well-read lad like you – the girls must be blind or stupid.”

Scripps violently pushes down the dog-like, excited reaction to Lockwood’s oblivious praise. It won’t do to rekindle an old interest. No sense in causing any more pain than necessary. The pathway to hell, though, as they say, is paved with good intentions. They talk for a good few hours, the sky darkening and the pub crowding as time flies by them.

“When do you go back?” Lockwood asks as they’re leaving.

“No set plan, really.”

“I’m on the train tomorrow, wouldn’t mind some company…” Lockwood trails off. It’s a terrible idea bound to rekindle that old flame, Scripps thinks, but he still agrees to ride the train home with Lockwood. He calls Pos the next morning to let him know he won’t need a lift back, but neglects to mention why.

He and Lockwood fill in the train ride with stories and it’s comfortable even in the few silences that stretch between them when they pause for breath. Lockwood was planning on staying in a hostel, but he’s quick to accept when Scripps offers his spare room.

It’s only for two weeks.

-:-

Scripps is playing the piano again.

Lockwood, sprawled across the bed, is lazily flicking through one of the many books usually seated on Scripps’ extremely bowed bookshelf. There is a pause in the music and the lieutenant looks up.

“The train, the train,” he says quietly, recalling one of their many micro-shows, and Scripps doesn’t even have to think; his fingers move across the keys of the piano as easily as if it were days, not years, between the performances.

“Do you think you can remember it?” Lockwood asks, coming to stand behind him, the book lying abandoned on the bed.

“I didn’t really have a lot to say,” Scripps replies in his usual measured speech. “It was Posner’s show, really.”

Lockwood grins and leans an elbow against the piano, propping up his chin on the fisted hand. “I stood there trembling, right on the edge,” he begins in an uncanny imitation of Pos at his Celia Johnson best, “but I couldn’t – I wasn’t brave enough.”

Scripps smiles despite himself while he plays the accompaniment.

“I should like to be able to say it was the thought of you and the children that prevented me, but it wasn’t. I had no thoughts at all, only an overwhelming desire not to feel anything ever again. Not to be unhappy anymore,” Lockwood finishes the nearly faultless recitation.

Scripps laughs.

“I used to want that role,” Lockwood notes idly.

Eventually, though, their two weeks of quiet domesticity come to an end as the army sweeps Lockwood up once more.

Without Lockwood around, Scripps finds the place empty and he hates cooking for one.

-:-

They end up exchanging letters and somewhere along the line ‘Lockwood’ is replaced by ‘James’, slightly to Scripps’ surprise. He’s not sure when it happened, but now they’re ‘Don’ and ‘James’ – ‘Jimmy’ if the Lieutenant’s feeling homesick – so when the replies stop coming around about April, Scripps can’t help but think the worst. The first two weeks of silence he chalks up to Lockwood being busy, or moving bases; doesn’t even consider anything more. He knows things have been demanding lately at the training base. But a month later and still no word, he begins to worry.

When his mind is quiet, all he can think about are disaster scenarios. Posner has music playing one afternoon and the ominous Phil Ochs lyrics almost drive Scripps to distraction. _It's always the old to lead us to the war/It's always the young to fall_. He hastily begs off the rest of the evening, claiming a headache, which isn’t entirely untrue – worrying about Lockwood has become a full-time occupation.

Months and dozens of unanswered letters pass before he receives an explanation.

Lockwood’s letter arrives on a Monday, and when Scripps finds it in his letterbox after work he doesn’t hesitate to rip it open where he stands, words and phrases leaping out at him as he scans the familiar handwriting.

 _Friendly fire – multiple gunshots_ – _critical_ ; it’s all the things he hoped it wasn’t, but Scripps can’t help but feel grateful because, even though he’s injured, at least Lockwood is alive and that dispels his greatest fear.

He learns through the course of the epistle that Lockwood’s still under observance in the hospital, but he’s due for release in two weeks since the wounds are no longer life-threatening, and, by all accounts, he’s very definitely on the mend.

Scripps spends an hour kneeling in the church that evening and the next day he makes the trip to the hospital to visit and the first thing that comes out of his mouth is: “You _idiot_.”

Lockwood accepts the tirade which follows (toned down in respect for the institution) with uncharacteristic meekness. At the end, Scripps adds, “I can’t believe you let yourself get shot. Do you have any idea what I was thinking when you stopped sending letters? I thought you’d died!”

“I thought I was going to,” is the quiet reply, and Scripps sinks into the chair at the wounded soldier’s bedside.

“Fuck,” he breathes, curling his hand into Lockwood’s and raising their joined fists to rest against his forehead.

-:-

Lockwood comes to stay in the apartment a short time after his injury sees him dismissed from all further duties; it’s a tight fit for two grown men, but they manage. Lockwood is disturbingly neat (always was, if Scripps thinks back to Cutler’s) and though Scripps tries to be organised it’s usually his mess – a combination of newspapers, journal articles and half-written pieces – that ruins the otherwise immaculate appearance of the flat.

It’s easy, living with Lockwood, but it’s even easier to love him.

For Scripps, this realisation comes on a balmy evening in June; his mug of tea is staining a slender crescent onto some discarded papers and the soundtrack of cars passing and dogs barking and children playing is sending him into a peaceful remembrance of summers long past, back home in rough old Yorkshire.

Lockwood is showering, trying to ease the ache he sometimes gets in his shoulder thanks to his injury. Or, at least, he was, Scripps thinks as the former soldier walks into the room with only a towel at his hips.

Drawing his eyes away from the sight is harder than it should be since the grooves at Lockwood’s hips entice and encourage Scripps’ gaze to move down his torso; rivulets of water make paths as they fall down his skin and Scripps feels his breath catch at the image. Lockwood is definitely what one would call sculpted; military training and a naturally lithe form have combined to give him an enviable figure.

The slight noise that escapes his throat attracts the other man’s attention and it results in a tense moment as they stare across the room at one another.

Lockwood makes the first move, slowly but confidently crossing the floor until he stands before the old two seater lounge and its single occupant.

“Liking what you see, old boy?” Lockwood says, a laugh on the tip of his tongue.

Scripps swallows, but his eyes are pleading and Lockwood knows him too well to step back now.

Neither of them is particularly small, but somehow their bodies fit together just so (and there is nowhere Scripps would rather be than in Lockwood’s embrace, feeling the heat of his body at every point of contact).

-:-

Posner finds out entirely by accident one Saturday when he arrives on the doorstep just as Lockwood’s let himself out. They almost collide, and there is a moment that both feel is entirely gauche but neither knows how to rectify and so they stand there in silence until Scripps steps into view. It wakes Lockwood from his paralysis and he manages to extricate himself from the awkward explanations by claiming errand-duty – there’s no milk in the flat.

He flees with as much dignity as possible, and afterwards Posner says to Scripps, “Well, that’s unexpected,” but leaves it at that as he barges through the open door.

Scripps gives him a funny little smile.

“How long’s this been going on then?” Posner says.

Scripps presses his lips together. “A while back. Before I even met him again; before you told me he’d been deployed.”

“That long?” Pos states in surprise; Scripps simply smiles and leads him into the sitting room.

“I guess you’d better come in. We’re out of milk, but Jim won’t be long.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Roxy Music’s song of the same name; gobbits, in order of appearance:
> 
> By all the days that I have lived/Make me a solider, Lord. – Before Action, by Lieutenant William Noel Hodgson, MC
> 
> He’s all of thirty-one, and he’s only seventeen/been a soldier for a thousand years. – Universal Soldier, by Donovan
> 
> Hence the faith and fire within us/Men who march away! – Men Who March Away, by Thomas Hardy
> 
> It's always the old to lead us to the war/It's always the young to fall – I Ain’t Marchin’ Anymore, by Phil Ochs


End file.
